


Dancing Where We Lay

by locketofyourhair



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Edging, F/M, Mentions of past abuse, very very light bdsm elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 16:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2277462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locketofyourhair/pseuds/locketofyourhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That he seems to always place her pleasure above his own? That bothers her. (Or shameless pwp, basically.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing Where We Lay

**Author's Note:**

> Loquaciousquark gave a prompt for edging, and thus I provide edging. Betaed by the lovely riversburns. 
> 
> As noted, this fic does touch on past abuse/powerlessness/sexual abuse in Fenris' past as a slave, but nothing happens on-screen and only alludes to what Hawke thinks may have happened.

He still doesn’t spend the night, and Hawke has no plans to push him to it. On sunny days, they’ll lay on her bed and read together. He’ll sleep then, lazing about like a cat, but if she touches him or if there is a sudden noise, he jolts awake and away from the bed, a stream of Arcanum curses falling out of his mouth. 

He looks terrified for just a moment, and she hates the terror there. She never wants to make him fear. 

They aren’t chaste, not by any means, but it strikes Hawke one night, when she is limp and boneless in bed and he is beginning to pull his armor back on to go, that he focuses on her, that his own pleasure is not so great as her happiness.

She is not a fool. She knows that there are parts of Fenris’ past that he will never tell her. If she had not suspicious before Orana, she knows now from the screaming nightmares she is supposed to ignore, when they wake the entire house. She sends the dog to sleep with Orana most nights, so she may feel safe.

It bites at her, when they are alone for a moment in the Hanged Man and he gives her a smile that promises that she will not walk home alone, when they spar together in the gardens behind the house. He loves her, even if he has not said the words, and this doesn’t bother her. She hasn’t said them either.

But that he seems to always place her pleasure above his own? That bothers her.

Unfortunately, everything she knows of helping dispel that notion is unacceptable. Perhaps with time, she will ask Fenris if he would mind being bound in bed, but she is both too cowardly and too sure she knows his answer. Little pains are right out, anything that might make him remember Danarius or Hadriana. 

She goes to Isabela for ideas, because if anyone has a sense of what might turn a man to jelly, it’s Isabela. 

She does not disappoint, though she demands details when all is said and done.

***

It starts simply enough. They both wear enough armor now that it’s easier to undress themselves before meeting on her bed. Someday they can plan a dress and trousers, but her breastplate has too many buckles for lust-filled fumblings and his gauntlets are far too intricate.

He pulls her close when she climbs up onto the bed beside him, biting lightly at her neck. He is always gentle until he forgets himself, and she would be lying if she said she did not relish that switch in him. 

“I have missed you,” he whispers. It has been nearly a week since they’ve had a long evening to themselves, partially by happenstance and partially because she needed time to work out the details. 

She slides her hands along his arms. He runs warm, either from his Seheron origins or the lyrium under his skin, and Hawke thinks she would know the touch of his skin anywhere. “I had a thought,” she says, before she can let his mouth distract her. 

“Oh?” Fenris murmurs, and he pulls back enough to eye her suspiciously. “Will I like this thought, or is this going to be a discussion I’d rather have left my trousers on for?”

She surges forward to kiss him, carefully touching the sides of his face. It used to be strange, to kiss a man with no rasp of stubble, but now it’s just Fenris. She would think stubble odd now. 

“No, it’s... I want to do something for you, that I’ll hope you’ll like,” she whispers, and her voice fails her in the end, going softer and unsure. “I want you to enjoy yourself more.”

He blinks and catches one of her hands. “Hawke, this, between us. I am happy.”

Hawke goes on her knees, and she kisses him again, quicker this time, because she doesn’t know what to say besides, “I’m glad you’re happy. I just want you to feel good. Is that all right?”

Fenris’ face doesn’t completely shut down, not yet. He’s wary though, eyes just a touch narrowed. “Sex does feel good.”

She rolls her eyes. This man. “Well, I’m glad we can agree on that.” She stretches out beside him and runs her hands down her own body, and though he still scowls, his eyes follow their path, widening when she spreads her legs so her right hand may cup between her thighs. “But this is a different sort of sex. Sort of a game.”

His eyes are still on her hand as she settles in, begins stroking herself in slow sure movements. “A game,” he murmurs.

Hawke stops her hand and moves up onto her elbows. “A game that if it becomes too much, you tell me, and then we’ll go from there.”

It’s a dangerous thing, to slip that in, because for all Fenris’ scars and sore spots, he does not like to feel coddled. He would hate to know that she worries about bringing up bad memories, as if she’s affronted his honor with her care for him. 

“All right. Shall I lie down as well?” He still sounds skeptical, but it’s a start.

She turns a bit, so he can see between her opened legs. “However you pleasure yourself,” she says, and now she cups her breasts, flicking her nipples. That is for him, for the catch of breath in his throat. “Because you’re--we’re going to touch ourselves rather than each other.”

“Odd game, considering,” he says wryly, but he’s settled on the bed a little more, one knee brought up and she can see that he is hard already, one hand curled loosely around his cock. 

She touches between her legs again, two fingers making lazy circles around her clit. His gaze burns on her skin. “The game comes because neither of us are allowed to finish. Touch yourself as much as you like, but do not orgasm.”

He is quiet, and she is sure that she’s pushed some hidden memory. “Will we, eventually?”

She laughs. “I said it was a game, Fenris, not torture. We go until we feel we both may break, and then we shall see.”

Isabela described it like Qunari thunderpower and Merrill’s lightning storms all in one. Hawke isn’t quite so sure, but even a chaste Chantry sister would have to admit that it sounds like fun. 

He shifts again. “Do you have oil?” Fenris’ voice is soft, nearly lost. 

“In the drawer beside my bed,” she murmurs, and her touch is lazy. She does not want to get herself too close before he’s even begun. 

Of course, there are other things in the drawer that they will have to talk about later. (Hawke was alone for three years after Fenris left, but she took care of herself.) He finds the oil, though, and then he has himself in hand again, hand fisted around the dark skin of his cock and glistening. 

Hawke does not think about Isabella again. She does not. 

Instead she pushes a finger into herself, her thumb still working at her clit. She keeps her eyes on his face, and she waits, waits for that half-gasp of pleasure he makes when he is hard and wanting. 

He looks younger like this, in firelight, when she cannot see the lines around his eyes and mouth so much. His back is away, so she cannot see all the marks of his life; just the lyrium, and she has come to appreciate those markings. 

“I would prefer this if I could touch you, I think,” Fenris says after a moment. “I find, too, that your hands and mouth are preferable...” 

She grins at him then and takes the hand not covered in oil into her free one, drawing it close so she may lick the calloused tips of his fingers. “Whatever you want, you only have to ask me,” she murmurs, before she slides her mouth over his hand.

“Tease,” he hisses, but his fingers are already inside her, and his touch is always more aggressive than her own, deliciously brutal, and keeping herself from swell of orgasm will be harder with his fingers inside her, his breath on her neck.

Never let it be said she shies away from a challenge.

Hawke has always found it too easy to just wrap her hand around a man and tug until he’s hit his limit. She keeps her mouth on his fingers, not just because it keeps one of his hands from her body, but because the image is one that makes his eyes dark and face flush. 

One hand traces the side of his face, careful to just touch the side of one ear with her thumb but never lingering, ghosting touches that he barely seems to register when her other hand is between his legs, cupping his balls, pressing fingers into the delicate flesh behind them.

He swears for her in Arcanum again, biting at his lip, and his fingers falter in her cunt. “Hawke, please,” he says, almost begs, and she delicately bites at his fingers before pulling her mouth away. 

“Do you think you could last if I touched you?” Now she bites at his jaw, where he smells of sun and a sharper, more metallic smell that might be from sharpening his greatsword, might be from the lyrium under his skin. 

She presses her fingers against him again, harder this time, and she feels the oil on his skin. Hawke knows what he meant to do, how he would touch himself if she were not here.

Now, she will not press the issue, but she files it away for later. 

“Hawke,” he says again, and she delicately runs her fingers over his cock. His hand is all but still against her, his thumb just a constant pressure on her clit.

Her nails trace the edges of the lyrium, the loops and whorls on his skin, and then his nipples, teasing them just a touch harder now. She still does not wrap her hand around him, stroking two fingers along the shaft, then her thumb along the underside. The touches alternate, and the most delicious groans slip from his mouth. 

He does not say her name again, but she can see his lips moving to make it. Her thumb slides over the head of his cock now, gathering the wet there. 

Both of Fenris’ hands come up and grip her arms, and she will have bruises, but still she teases him. 

“Can you last much longer, Fenris,” she says, and she keeps her voice gentle, soft. She kisses the side of his mouth. 

He grinds his teeth. “I am trying, woman,” he snaps, but he does not ask for her to end this, not even when she finally, finally wraps one hand around his cock and begins to stroke. She keeps her movements slow, almost delicate. 

Fenris squirms and hisses through his teeth, almost starting to curl in on himself. He says nothing, and she kisses him again, just as soft. Then she moves her legs so she sits astride him on the bed. 

She can feel his cock twitch in her hand, see the way he just seems to curl in on himself when he realizes what she means to do. 

Hawke touches his face and remains still until his eyes open, slightly glazed and unable to focus. “Please,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t really seem to see her. 

“Fenris, would it be all right,” she murmurs, touching his face and smoothing his hair. “Do you want to be inside me?”

He takes a moment, and she can see the struggle, how very close he is to losing control of himself. His throat moves as he swallows once, then again. “I will likely not last. It will not be as pleasurable for you--”

Hawke silences him again, kissing the words from his lips. “Do not worry about me,” she says, and then she lowers her body slowly onto his. There was not quite enough attention paid to her, and the stretch is uncomfortable. 

She takes her time though, one hand pressed low on his belly. His head has fallen back on her pillows, white hair spreading over the fine red fabric, and she grabs at his other hand with hers, letting him squeezes her fingers as she takes him all in. 

“Are you ready?” she asks, when their bodies are wedded. The firelight catches the sheen of sweat on his skin, and he glows in a way that nothing to do with his markings. 

He nods, as if he cannot speak, and she rolls her hips once, coaxing a half-strangled moan from him. 

“Fenris, we can--”

“No,” he says, eyes flying open, his body half off the bed and moving her, and his shoulders shake from the sudden sensation. “No,” he says, softer. “Move, Hawke. Please.”

So she does. Their hands stay joined, and she watches his face, watching him fight for control over his body. His other hand settles on her hip, an anchor, something to keep him tethered. 

Hawke does not try to touch herself, enjoying this too much, not wanting to take her hand from his or the other from his body. There will be other nights for her pleasure. 

It’s a mystery what changes, if it is just the constant feel of her around him, her hips moving, muscles flexing, or some unknown thing that only he can see, but finally, finally his eyes fly open, and he grinds out, “Hawke, I am sorry--”

She shushes him, kisses the wrinkle forming between his brows. “It’s all right, Fenris. Come, if you cannot hold back any longer.”

His hand on her hip is bruising, and he holds her against him, as close as she can be, when the feral cry escapes him and echoes through the room (likely the house). He holds her close until he’s come down, till he’s relaxing boneless against her sheets. 

They say nothing for a long time, listening to each other breathe. She does not want to be the one to move first, curling on her side and playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, where it always feels softest. 

Fenris takes her hand then and kisses it. “I should ask what that was for,” he says, voice careful, soft. He will not look at her.

“For you. I thought--I thought you would like it,” she murmurs. Hawke rests her head on his shoulder carefully, giving him time to move if he wants. 

He turns then, and there is something in his eyes that she doesn’t have a name for. “I don’t understand why, but I thank you.”

She kisses him chastely. “Because I care about you, and I want you to enjoy this as much as I do. Isn’t that enough?”

“I suppose it is,” he says, and then he kisses her lips, her jaw, then to her shoulder and the spot between her breasts. “But I will not let such a boon go unanswered, Hawke.” 

And there is really nothing more to say after that.


End file.
